A Study in Dependence
by MickeyMonroe
Summary: UNDER PLOT LINE RECONSTRUCTION. Story gap located, revising in process, plot bunnies realigning. Should be repaired soon.
1. Prologue

"That's a skull."

"Friend of mine."

He deflected the inquiry easily enough, but could do nothing for the sudden injection of ice water into his veins that accompanied any mention of the bones above the fireplace. Fortunately, it had dulled by now to a slow, aching throb, any physical signs of which could be quickly squashed into oblivion.

"When I say friend…"

There wasn't time for lingering sentiments now. A case had presented itself, rearing its beautifully ugly head and bearing its fangs, jowls dripping with a mystery yet to be solved…but even so, he caught himself casting one lingering glance at the morbid grin on the mantelpiece, meeting the sockets of an empty gaze.


	2. Remembering to Breathe

**Two years earlier.**

**Ch1 Remembering to Breathe**

It was hurting again. His head. He could feel it, physically feel it and it hurt.

He wrapped his hands about his skull like a vice, like iron bars but it did nothing to quell the throbbing. He could almost hear himself think, so loud were his thoughts. Thoughts, if you could call them that. _Normal _people didn't think in encyclopedia entries or newspaper clippings. _Normal _people didn't think in flashes of ideas, so bright that they seared the backs of their eyelids.

He gritted his teeth against the onslaught of information, acquired over years and years of careful observation that rammed against his skull, the blood in his brain literally pounding against his temples. He squeezed tighter and curled in on himself, arching his spine in a feeble attempt to stem the pressure building in his head cavity.

_Arsenic. __A __chemical element __with symbol __**As **__and __atomic number__ 33. Arsenic occurs in many minerals, usually in conjunction with sulfur and metals, and also as a pure elemental crystal. First documented by __Albertus Magnus__in 1250.__Arsenic is a __metalloid__. It can exist in various __allotropes__, although only the gray form has important use in Indus-_

He gritted his teeth and whipped his head to the side. It was a trick he'd seen on reality television. The actors often used it to "clear their heads". It had no effect. Not for him. It was like rolling dice.

_Sociopath. A person with a psychopathic personality whose behavior is antisocial, often criminal, and who lacks a sense of moral responsibility or social consc-_

He jerked away from the definition, standing abruptly and stumbling against the lightheadedness that accompanied the action. Long fingers stretched out like a silent plea, groping through the air as he lurched forward, toppling a small table and the newspapers aboard its surface with his Frankenstein-like gait.

Long legs tangled and he fell, inches away from splitting his aching skull on the sharp corner of the bookshelf. The thought of instant relief filtered briefly through his mind, but he deleted it without much hesitation. He'd tried once, offing himself, but the poetic gesture had gone horribly wrong. He was walking dead still, with only matching, puckered scars gracing the milky skin of his wrists to show for his suffering.

Feebly, he pulled himself up by clinging to the shelf edges like a mountain climber and reached desperately for a large, brown book between _Kant _and _Darwin_. The book itself had no name to grace its empty spine, and had nothing written in the pages that weren't pages at all. A large square had been removed from the center, creating a safe hollow. A hollow that contained a small syringe full of clear liquid.

Oh, he was fully aware how conspicuous a blank book would appear to anyone investigating his flat, but at this particular moment in time, he didn't care. Not one bit. Every voice he'd ever heard was screaming at him, screaming things he already knew as he fought viciously to draw the bridges and bolt the windows of his mind palace turned monster.

Monster. Yes. His brain was a monster. The relationship between his body and his brain was not symbiotic in any way. His brain demanded constant use, constant attention like an infant from its mother. Ignored, it would throw a tantrum. His brain demanded that he not slow it down with luxuries such as _food _and _sleep_, but his body showed the repercussions. Long, lithe, and lean from chasing and running and fighting, but shadowed and starved and pale. His body was transport. His mind was a parasite.

He was very aware of the other distractions. He'd tried them all before. Puzzles, Sudoku, crosswords, all solved in a matter of moments. Meditation, yoga, and exercise only made him even more exhausted than he already was. They did nothing for the black hole living in his skull. Every so often, relief would present itself in the form of a case. A good murder or complicated scandal that would require his mind to stop _torturing _him and work. Actually work, and it felt so _good._ Like stretching a stiff muscle or finally getting a whining toddler to shut up and watch TV. But that was always fleeting, and as soon as the case was over, he would be back where he started.

Drugs were different and easy to find. They worked fast and long, spinning him out into a dull silence where his head was full of cotton and softer things, where he couldn't move his arms and legs as quickly, but that was fine because he was safe.

An uncomfortable nagging sensation was slowing his thoughts down a considerable amount, as well as making him wobble precariously and he drew himself back to the task at hand, wondering why he felt as though his ribs were on fire. Ah.

Breathing. Breathing was good. He'd forgotten to do it again and he did so now, easing the burning ache in the deep of his chest and clearing the spots from his vision but restoring his brain to prime condition to rip at the walls of its calcium confines. The needle was still positioned readily over the crease at the junction of his elbow.

His stomach lurched in anticipation as he formed a tourniquet with his belt and shakily attempted to location a vein, or at least stop shaking long enough to stick himself. Clammy hands almost dropped the needle and the momentary panic gave just enough adrenaline to soothe the tremors wracking his body. He hoped briefly that he would remember to continue breathing during this bout before he plunged his salvation into the soft flesh of his arm.

A small pinch. Ecstasy.


	3. A Welcome Distraction

A small vibration in his right pocket jolted him from the drug induced slumber that left him sprawled across his sofa. He reached for it groggily, blinking the sleep from his very likely bloodshot eyes.

The sun shone unforgiving through the only windows in the room, casting a false sense of cheer into the nearly vacant flat. Dust mites drifted lazily through the almost silence, the only other sound being slow breaths taken and exhaled by the man on the couch.

_Taking you out for another test run, Holmes. Station in an hour. –GL_

A pang of hope flared into his stomach as he tossed the silver block onto the carpeted floor and wrenched his stiff limbs from the sticky leather, hurrying to wash all trace of his habitual practice before meeting with the stoic and distrusting Greg Lestrade.

They had met a year prior, when Sherlock's constant, anonymous tips had begun to bore him, and he chose instead, to investigate himself; a faster, more efficient way to solve crime, in his opinion. A murder, turning out to be an accident. Sherlock had hacked his way into the case files online _(they really should try more difficult passwords)_, interrogated the suspects in a manner only Sherlock Holmes could, cornered the perpetrator and led them handcuffed to the police station along with a folder of completed notes and paperwork on the now solved case.

He had handed the handcuffed man to a dumbstruck officer and promptly plopped the manila folder onto D.I. Lestrade's desk, all the while explaining to him precisely what he'd done wrong.

The D.I. in question had turned various shades of red and purple while screeching irritably at the amused Sherlock for stealing his credit and various other petty accusations, before arresting him on charges of interference. However, once the blood had gone from his head and the calming effects of a cigarette had entered his lungs, the flushed annoyance was replaced with a shade of admiration, if not distrust.

From then on, Sherlock Holmes was called in on several occasions, although they were few and far between. He had solved every single one in a matter of days, if not hours, and although the suspicion on the head inspector's face was evident, Sherlock knew that he was slowly building the credit he needed.

He tucked the memory away as he peeled the sweat-drenched button up from his shoulders and stepped away from his trousers lying in a ribbony heap across the tile. Icy water hit his skin with a merciless piercing sensation and chilled him to the bone, but ripped at the tendrils of sleep still clinging to his consciousness. He exhaled through his nose and closed his eyes.

* * *

He exited the stuffy cab, casting a handful of perfectly calculate bills in the driver's direction and headed briskly for the cinderblock rectangle currently serving as the Police Headquarters. A dark skinned woman with unruly hair turned the corner and matched his pace, eying him with an appreciative glance before turning back to the papers she clutched in her firm fingers.

"Mr. Holmes," she greeted.

"Sally," he replied curtly.

Her nonchalance was well performed. Almost credible, in his opinion, but it was terribly obvious to the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes that Sally snuck continuous glances at him throughout their short time together, maneuvering him all too innocently into the space before her that she might gaze shamelessly at his well shaped rear end.

"That's Sergeant Donovan, to you," she chastised, pulling the door open for him. "You're in my kingdom now. Catch me off work though and you can call me anything you like."

He brushed past her and through the open door. Hormones were a distraction that he had no time for, especially when the possibility of exercising his boiling brain was being dangled in front of him like a stuffed mouse for a cat.

Suspicious glances were thrown in his direction as he wove his way to Lestrade's office, but he didn't pay them any mind. They would likely never cease. Not even when, or if, he ever puzzled his way into Lestrade's good graces. It didn't sit well with these people, who had gone through years of University and summer courses to finally weedle their way into these positions, that a hermit like him had merely examined the sneakers of their suspects before solving whatever mystery he was presented. It made them uncomfortable and slightly jealous, a fact that had streamed into his subconscious along with the rest of the information he gleened off of them by watching.

He smirked sourly to himself as he neared Lestrade's office, earning a few grimaces and glares in return. He hardly noticed.

The D.I. who's name was plastered authoritatively to the door currently dominated a black, high backed chair with his suit clad elbows resting on the polished surface of his desk, kept notoriously tidy in the still-present pride that accompanied his recent promotion. Storm gray eyes raked over Sherlock in acknowledgement, while a furrowed brow suggested confusion and an emotion Sherlock often found himself associating with his new-found employer: frustration.

He surveyed the room idly, taking in the two clients seated in cheap folding chairs across from Lestrade.

"Right on time," Lestrade half praised. He gestured to the others. "Jabez Wilson and Emelie Jones."

Sherlock turned his keen gaze on the two with a slight nod.

Jabez Wilson was a stubby man, all stocky limbs and jerky movements. He had on a white polo with a mustard stain near the buttons and brown khakis that hadn't been ironed. His brown shoes were worn, but polished, and covered in chalky gray powder. A mop of flaming red hair covered all of his head but the top, where an aging bald spot glistened in a sheen of sweat. Two watery blue eyes were set deep in the creases of a pale, freckled face, and his thick, curly eyebrows her folded down into a frown that reached his mouth and shoulders simultaneously as he craned his neck around to see who was interrupting the inquiry.

Next to Jabez was a woman with the same red hair and freckles, but his polar opposite in almost every one of her features. Where Jabez was built and compact, Emelie Jones was tall and thin, made up of willowy curves and dancer's grace. Her lithe form was decorated in a billowing white shirt, a short black pencil skirt, argyle patterned tights, and leather lace up combat boots, covered in the same grey dust as her grouchy counterpart. She swiveled to face him, straightening her thin shoulders in what probably was a trained habit and rattling what looked like an industrial toolbelt hooked tightly around her hips. Her red hair hung nearly to the middle of her ribcage and curled gently around an angular face, which contained a much smaller amount of blotchy freckles than Jabez Wilson's. Her were smattered across high cheekbones and a pert nose, both of which confirming Sherlock's assumption that the two wayward victims of whatever crime had been committed were not closely related. He met her eyes unintentionally, finding himself peering searchingly into her irises: moss colored pools dotted with large flecks of golden brown.

She blinked, dark eyelashes severing the accidental connection and Sherlock turned his attention back to the rumpled man.

"And who are you?" he demanded, a hint of a Scottish accent peeking out in his irritability.

"Sherlock Holmes."


	4. Beginning of Relevance

Lestrade spoke up immediately in a frantic attempt to maintain a sense of professionalism.

"It's fine, Mr. Wilson. Holmes here is one of ours."

The red faced man gave Sherlock a shameless once over, squinting at him with undisguised suspicion.

"He isn't dressed like one of yours." Wilson sniffed, crossing his beefy arms over his thick chest.

The man in question rolled his eyes briefly as Lestrade sputtered explanations with all the grace of a beached salmon .

"Tell me why I am here, Mr. Wilson." Sherlock interjected. "Or would you rather abandon your current situation to the clueless accumulation of intellectual runts that call themselves a detective agency?"

His icy eyes darted briefly to the D.I. behind the desk. Lestrade had gone silent, pressing his already small mouth into a paper thin line of disapproval and Sherlock recognized the familiar symptoms of a man analyzing the best and quickest way to throttle him.

Jabez Wilson focused his beady blue eyes on Sherlock's face, raising his eyebrows in proud Scottish defiance as the woman beside him watched the exchange with interest.

"So you think you know better than these blokes, then?" He challenged.

"I _know _I do."

The large man twisted in his chair even further, the edge of his large behind hanging precariously to the cheap plastic chair by a pocket top as he faced the sullen ghost still drifting at the closed door.

"Well then. Riddle me this. Not 2 months ago, a friend of mine sees an ad in the papers. 'Twas for this gatherin' called the League of Red-Headed Men." He gestured wildly around his glistening bald patch. "You can imagine why I applied."

"A league specifically designed for people with red hair? Why?"

Wilson shrugged.

"Some laddie who wanted to, and I quote, _promote the interests of redheaded men by hiring them to perform small tasks._ It wasn't the most descriptive job description, I'll give you that, but I thought to myself; Javez, you're a man with character, strength, and knack for getting what he wants. All that and you definitely fit the description. So I got down to the office, got myself an interview-"

"With whom?"

Sherlock interrupted idly, fidgeting his fingers in his coat pockets. Granted, the case was peculiar, however, he ached for something more…trying. As hard as he tried to disguise it beneath layers of nonchalance and utter boredom, Sherlock _was _vying for Lestrade's approval. Not for sentimental reasons, heavens no. He _needed_ it. He needed someone on the inside to give him access so that he could put the monster in his skull to good use between bouts of rage. Between injections.

"Duncan Ross."

He snapped back to attention with a small jerk of his head. "Name was Duncan Ross. He was a ginger too, if I ever saw one. Had it all over him. An enormous mustache, gigantic beard. Thin as a twig, though. Didn't look much like the business type, that one. Anyway, we're waiting outside this building, my friend and I, and there's a whole crowd of gingers. More than I've ever seen in my life and we're there for about an hour just waiting to be seen. When we finally get called in, Ross takes one look at me and grabs my hand in a death grip." Wilson thrust a fist before himself to mimic the grasp theatrically. "And he says he'd never seen a man better for the job. Then he apologized, and at first I was confused, but then he reaches both hands out and starts to pull on my fringe, hard enough that I may have lost a few big bits off the top." He held both fists in the air around an invisible head, reliving the moment for the others in the room. "Then he told me that it was just to be sure I was genuine. The announcement was made that the vacancy had been filled, and we discussed the terms for the job. I started the next day."

Sherlock crossed his arms over the boredom building a knot between his stiff shoulders.

"And what were the terms exactly."

"Well, I told him that I had a business already, but the bloke who found the ad already looks after the shop along with me most days, and he promised to take full responsibility while I was working. The hours were ten to two, and I was required to stay inside the building at all times. Leaving would mean termination, and I was being paid quite a sum to sit there and copy pages of the Encyclopedia."

"He was paying you to copy the Encyclopedia? How much was he paying you?"

Jabez Wilson scratched his balding skull and looked at the woman sitting next to him.

"How much was it, then Em?"

She smiled briefly at Javez.

"400."

Sherlock catalogued her smooth, bright voice into the profile he had begun collecting in his mind. At times like these, any and all information was of value.

"Right, 400 pounds a week to copy Encyclopedia entries into a notebook without leaving an empty building."

Sherlock was beginning to fidget.

"Well congratulations, Mr. Wilson. I'm sure you are very happy with your new position, however I don't get called in to listen to others' good fortune."

The annoyance of the red headed man's face was evident, as was the other's disinterest obvious on his own.

"I'm getting' to that." He snapped. "Eight weeks in to the job and I've almost gotten past the A's, when I show up to work to find the doors locked and a notice stuck to the front."

A large hand was plunged into the pockets of his khakis to emerge a moment later clutching a crumpled scrap of notebook paper. Sherlock took it from him with a sigh.

_The Red-Headed League is Dissolved._

_ October 9, 2006_

Sherlock chuckled at the white material in his fingers and Javez Wilson promptly snatched it back from him, blushing a furious red down to the neck of his polo and nearly camouflaging with the wiry red strands of hair that grew from his scalp.

"I don't think it's very funny, Mr. Holmes!" He exclaimed.

Lestrade rose from his chair to intervene but Javez flapped a palm in his direction. "If you think this is all a big joke, I'll take my business elsewhere."

"No, it's not- He's really-" Lestrade was sputtering, but Sherlock Holmes would have none of it.

"No, you won't because it won't be solved without me. Look at them, the police are useless. What exactly do you expect them to do? Arrest Duncan Ross? I'm absolutely positive, as I'm sure you are too, that if you did so happen to run a search on this man he _would not exist_ in any way. You've presented a puzzle, and one that cannot be solved with the likes of an average mind."

Frustration ate away at the tiny spark of intrigue he'd felt at the sight of the notice. Incompetence was a crucial point in any investigation, and it was most definitely being displayed in the form of Javez Wilson's _infuriating _doubt and Detective Lestrade's constant attempts to wordlessly force him to shut up.

"Oh, and I suppose you're the man for the job, then?" The Scotsman challenged, standing to his full height and daggers in the direction of Sherlock's chin.

"I am." Sherlock replied, glaring evenly down his nose at the chubby nuisance before spinning away to pace the length of the room, his coat flaring out behind him in annoyance. He stopped in the opposite corner and raked his hand through the messy curls atop his head that had fallen into his eyes before spinning around and pointing one, long, pale finger in Javez's direction. "Because I can tell more about you in one glance than anyone could in any interrogation." He dropped his finger as the familiar stretch of his mind's capacity enveloped the man across the room. "Let's see, where shall we begin. You were raised in Scotland, obvious from your accent, but you moved to London recently. Why? Oh a fight with the missus? Didn't end well did it, not with her still pining after you like a lost dog. Your phone. It's rung 5 times in the past 15 minutes. Might have been a girlfriend but you've got a tan line from where your wedding band used to be. You worked in construction in Scotland, didn't you. The muscles in your right forearm are slightly more developed in your left, the obvious choice of hand to maneuver a drill or hammer, but you quit that a few months ago when you landed yourself in London, judging by the vanishing calluses. Now you work at your pawnshop just North of here. The one behind the National Westminster Bank. How could I tell? Simple. The cement dust on your shoes and trousers. The sidewalk is being replaced on the corner and you passed over it to catch a cab. Now how did I guess that? Well, I didn't guess, I saw the ticket stub protruding from your pocket. A ticket stub that tells me you stopped for takeout on your way here. Looks like the pub just 2 blocks away from here, noting the stain on your collar. They always put too much mustard on the pastrami, don't they."

Wilson's jaw hung slack as the emboldened Sherlock turned on his companion, much to the dismay of the graying D.I. standing frozen behind his desk.

"Holmes, I swear-"

Very well then. The point had been made.

"Now as for your case." He spun away from the others and paced through the details in his mind, thoughts falling in step with his feet as he traipsed the length of Lestrade's office. "There are facts I am going to need from you. Small details, names, dates, specific things that I hope you remember because if you don't, your case shall remain forever a simple moment of serendipity that may or may not have been a tiny chip off a whole block of crime."

Lestrade suppressed his anger momentarily to eye Sherlock with a speckle of hope.

"So you've got an idea, then."

Sherlock faced him smoothly, spinning on his heal to accommodate the address.

"12 so far. It's merely a process of elimination from here that _should_, in theory, move very quickly as long as I have jurisdiction over a good part of this investigation," Lestrade shot him a scowl that could have wounded a large animal but it was ignored. "As well as full cooperation from everyone involved, which I am assuming there must be since you came first to the police. Now. From here on out, things will move fast and precisely, for if any of several of my hypotheses are correct, we may not have a very long time before something drastic occurs. "

The silence in the room was ringing heavily in Sherlock's ears as he inhaled a soothing breath and folded his arms across his chest. Whatever happened now would be the turning point of the precarious relationship he had with Detective Inspector Lestrade, and Sherlock hoped to high heavens that the irritable, graying specimen behind the polished oak would keep his temper-turning mouth shut tight.

No such luck.

"Mr. Wilson-" he began.

"Piss off, Lestrade." He shouted abruptly. Javez took a shuddering breath, leveling his gaze into the ice chips floating in Sherlock's face. "Never do that again."

His voice was a deadly calm as watery blue eyes tried with all their might to punch him in the neck. Wilson turned to Lestrade slowly and Sherlock exhaled in despair, watching the Detective suck in a short breath and hold it tightly within his lungs, awaiting the ginger storm that was sure to be Javez Wilson. "He's hired."


	5. Double Edge

**A/N Sherlock lives at 221 B because putting him anywhere else requires too much effort. I already know what the inside of 221 B looks like, roughly where it is, what sort of buildings surround it, and the backstory of Sherlock's relationship with Ms. Hudson. Furthermore, when Sherlock said he had his eye on a place (in BBC Sherlock) then told John to meet him there, it looked as if he'd been there for quite a while prior. I've used that assumption to my own liking.**

**PS Thank you to my readers, followers, and favoriters. I know you're few and far between, but the support really does do wonders on my ambition to continue writing, regardless of the fact that I genuinely am writing this purely for my own amusement. Cheers!**

**Special thanks to my one and only reviewer, Why Fireflies Flash. You are the butter to my cream.**

**Onward.**

Sherlock leaned heavily against the solid brick of the police headquarters, waiting impatiently for a cab as familiar weariness crept sluggishly into his bones.

It had been happening more and more often lately, especially after a long deduction. What usually came so effortlessly to him seemed to require effort now. Every observation like a climb straight up a vertical rock face, sapping his strength from him as a leech would do. It was a silly notion to him, one that left him frustrated and confused, that merely _thinking_ could cause him to fall asleep for hours on end, sometimes sleeping days away when he wasn't flying high or unpuzzling puzzles for the silly buffoons in uniform here. But yet, here he was. Clinging to the outer rim of his salvation with sagging, lanky limbs and worn out muscles.

It was a constant battle these days; either he'd be awake for days when a case finally presented itself, his brain working full throttle until the very moment a bored secretary slammed a rubber and wood stamp down on his file, leaving an enormous, black, CASE CLOSED over the top of his triumph, or he'd be using, buzzing in and out of drug induced unconsciousness while the beast in his skull raged to work, or he'd be asleep, the lack of it catching up to him in a tidal wave as he succumbed to one of the most primal human needs. He couldn't sleep when he wanted to, only when it was most inconvenient.

But worse than this constant plague of hibernation was the _dissatisfaction_.

It had started a few months ago after a particularly nasty triple murder that had looked promising in the beginning, but had turned out to be utterly….no it _had _lived up to its potential, the result had merely left him feeling…empty.

After that, it had only gotten worse and worse, as had his drug usage.

Sherlock blamed the D.I. for giving him boring cases but something niggled in the back of his brain in the form of a conscience he never really listened to because it was annoying, but it was getting to him now. Whispering a little question into his growing sense of self doubt.

"Why do you do it? Why do you even bother? Why can't you just be normal? Why can't anyone understand? Why won't anyone see? Why? Why? Why?"

And in truth, he didn't know.

Sherlock breathed a constricted sigh through his tight lips and batted at the curls hanging like stalactites over his eyes.

He'd liked the puzzles at first, solving them purely for himself in an attempt to quell the pounding in his head, and it had worked for a long while.

The spaces in between were easily combated with drugs, spinning him senseless until the next time someone called for his intellect, but now...

Perhaps the silence was getting to him. After every excursion he came home to an empty flat, the quiet ringing in his ears with such force that he'd begun to explain his cases to himself, unwind every detail and deduction to make sure he'd gotten it all; to push at the silence. The landlady was, he was positive, convinced he was insane, but it didn't bother him. What did bother him was the fact that there was no one to congratulate him on his brilliance, or even scold him for being reckless.

A brother long forsaken drifted unbidden into his mind.

The feud he was currently locked in with the male half of his family had ripped Mycroft Holmes from his constant, overbearing presence in Sherlock's life; a change not easily dealt with when he'd grown accustomed to his stern shadow. Mycroft had been there always, hanging over his shoulder in disgust and barely disguised interest as his younger sibling dissected the different species of frogs living in the pond behind their mansion, scolding him like a nanny for experimenting on the neighbor's pug, listening attentively as Sherlock explained his latest discovery of Madame Gustave's third affair with a man in the states, rescuing him from trouble with the other boys at boarding school, and secretly opening his door a crack long after young Sherlock had gone to bed, whispering "sleep well, brother" before slipping away into the darkness. Mycroft didn't know of Sherlock's knowledge on the subject, and Sherlock had kept it to himself, not proud of the way it had left a soft feeling in the hollow of his tiny chest.

It was no matter now. Mycroft was busy enough with some minor occupation in the British government; an occupation, Sherlock suspected, was much more monarchial than Mycroft had let on, and had little time to be scurrying about with a safety net to catch his baby brother after every dangerous antic. And Sherlock was fine with that. The last time he'd seen his brother, (had it really been a full year?) they'd fought; and the row between them had been the straw that broke the camel's back.

He raised a hand to signal another taxi and let the memory trickle from his focus like rainwater down a muddy London gutter. Lingering sentiments would do him no good now.

"221 B Baker Street."

Somewhere in front of him, a head bobbed in acknowledgement and Sherlock pulled the door shut, leaving all thoughts of the elder Holmes outside.

Settling into the back seat, Sherlock found his eyes wandering outside of window, mindlessly roving over the boring streets of London as it flashed by it all of its grays and blacks. A steady stream of information trickled into his subconscious, some of it dismissed, some filed away.

_New shop on the corner. Sweet shop. Boring. Marcus Flint is wearing two left shoes again. Wife must be out of town, possibly seeing that woman in Rochester. Boring but necessary. _

A flash of orange caught his vision and he focused, the cab hissing to a halt before a red light.

It was the girl from the briefing, the one with the curtain of fiery locks and the speckled eyes, who wore a heavy duty toolbelt around her hips despite the air of dancer's grace that hung about her form.

She was sitting idly on an iron bench, on leg crossed over the other and her hands clasped peacefully in her lap as the world moved around her. Waiting.

A beggar in a ragged coat sat thickly beside her and she turned to accommodate him, engaging him in casual conversation, but Sherlock could see in the way she held her shoulders and unclasped her hands that this was indeed the man she'd been waiting for.

He watched in interest, nearly pressing his face into the glass for a better look as she slipped a hand into her pocket without breaking eye contact with the man before her and laughed at some joke Sherlock couldn't hear. Then she stood, shook the beggar's hand, and left, crossing the sidewalk to a sleek black motorcycle with a matching helmet dangling off of one handle bar.

A green light prompted the cab to lurch forward and Sherlock sat back, a small smile gracing his tired lips, for now he had two mysteries on his hands.

One: The bizarre occurrence of a League that appeared from nowhere and vanished into nothing with a suspicious lack of repercussions.

And Two: The question of the oddly placed girl with a motorcycle unlike any in existence, who wore a toolbelt out and about as if it were the most normal thing in the world, and snuck folded pieces of paper into the hands of homeless men. The question named Emelie Jones.


	6. NOTICE

** For all of you following this, thank you. Unfortunately, a problem arose with several aspects of my OC that need to be revised. Storyline will be rewritten, chapters will change, but I'll be getting to the same overall point and the revision should be posted soon.**

** Cheers and chocolate,**

** MickeyMonroe**


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